


Be a Clown

by Styfas



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, One Shot, Post-Arkham, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styfas/pseuds/Styfas
Summary: One year after his release from Arkham State Hospital, Arthur gets an intriguing job offer.  Fearful of what the job entails and how it may adversely affect him, but desperately needing the money, he accepts it.  This is what happens when the job comes to fruition.(If you've watched Arthur/Joker walk out of the subway, you'll understand).
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Be a Clown

**Author's Note:**

> This initially came into my brain as a crack premise, but as I started writing, it turned into crack treated seriously. :D

Arthur Fleck looked at his reflection in the makeup table mirror in his private dressing room. The man who looked back at him held a troubled expression, a conflict between happy and fearful. Happy because there was a good sum of money to be made from doing this gig, and fearful because of what it entailed. Sure, people would notice him, but was this really the kind of attention he wanted only one year after his release from Arkham State Hospital? 

When the lady at the agency called him, she explained the concept behind the gig and said that he was the only one who could help pull it off. No one else would do, she said. He would have the starring role, and he would close the show. He flatly refused. She replied that they might as well cancel the entire show if he wasn’t going to take part. 

He said no again, with apologies. 

She quoted a dollar figure that they would be willing to pay for him to take part.

Four figures. Tempting. So tempting.

Still, he declined. 

She begged him to reconsider. She gave him her phone number and asked him to think about it for a few days before giving her his final answer. 

Arthur wrote down her phone number on a slip of paper and left it by the phone. He walked past it at least eight times a day for a week, the black scribbled numbers staring up at him in invitation each time.

On the eighth day, he relented and called her back to accept the gig. He desperately needed the money. He was barely able to make ends meet from working at his job in the back room of the Gotham Superstore. Rent needed to be paid, and prescriptions purchased. As for food, it was oatmeal, macaroni and cheese, and ramen, day in and day out. Good thing he had quit smoking years ago. He would never have been able to afford cigarettes.

Arthur was told that he would only need to do a costume fitting, a rehearsal, one performance, and then he’d be done. He knew that this gig would be a challenge – but somehow, he would make it work. Afterwards, he’d be able to pay three months’ worth of bills and expenses and still have a little bit left over. 

At his costume fitting appointment, Arthur begged off participating in a dress rehearsal with the group, prompting the show’s production staff to call him a “temperamental artist.” He countered, talking a good line by saying that the element of surprise would be more powerful for all concerned in the production – including himself – if they could keep things secret until the day of the show. He negotiated for a private run-through of the staging with the director. All he had to do was close the show; he knew that the staging couldn’t be that difficult. He assured them that there would be an extra spark of spontaneity in his performance, adding that he always worked better when he took risks. Based on Arthur’s argument, the production staff agreed to indulge him. 

So now, here he was, pre-performance, applying clown white makeup to his face with a broad makeup brush. Forehead first, then nose, cheeks, and chin, and finishing around his mouth. The brush felt good in his hand; he hadn’t lost his touch. Maybe this experience wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

Next, large blue triangles above and below his eyes. He painted them with a narrow brush, slowly, carefully, and in perfect symmetry. 

Now for the red paint; he couldn’t be a clown without painting brows, mouth, and nose. He started with arched brows, painted inches above the blue triangles. Not perfectly symmetrical; one higher than the other, but they didn’t need to be perfect for this particular gig. He painted a wide red smile that extended up from his own lips, down to the knob of his chin, and also outward, in points, about a half inch past the natural corners of his own mouth. 

Nose next. He painted the very tip of his nose, then artfully circled his brush until he was satisfied that he had painted a perfect red nose.

His basic makeup was finished. But there was still more to do to make it look more arresting. Arthur took a deep breath to steel himself. He needed to look authentic; it was what the production team wanted. With a trembling hand, he dipped his brush into the red paint. He extended the right side of his painted mouth, skewing the angle upwards, and ending in a point midway across his cheek to create an asymmetrical smile.

He added a few stray downward marks to his painted brows. 

His heart raced as he rinsed his brush and dipped into his blue face paint once more.

Do it fast and get it over with, he thought. Try not to overthink it _._

He set his brush firmly against the blue triangle under his left eye and held his breath. He dragged a line of paint straight downward, on top of his painted mouth, and past it, ending just short of his jawline. He dropped his brush to the table and exhaled. 

He carefully set his makeup with translucent powder.

Finished.

He got up from the table and stripped down to his T-shirt, briefs, and white socks. A deep breath, then over to the clothing rack. 

A tailored, three-piece suit was to be his costume. Arthur wondered again how the designer could have found the exact same tomato-red fabric as that of the suit he had worn years ago. The mustard yellow vest, too, for that matter. Maybe a white fabric had been dyed to the perfect colors? As for the shirt, it was the same green, and in the same pattern. How? 

But he wasn’t to question how costume designers worked their magic.

His job today was to work his own special magic with this suit.

Arthur took the pants off of the rack. He slipped them on, buttoned and zipped, and checked his body in the full-length mirror on the wall. Damn, he looked good. Fifteen pounds heavier than when he had entered Arkham State hospital, but still trim enough to pull off this gig. He put on the shirt and vest, then topped off the ensemble with the suit jacket in the same color as the pants. His blood buzzed through his veins, his fingertips tingling as he buttoned the jacket. He closed his eyes, turned to face the mirror, and braced himself. He took a hard swallow, and then dared to look at the end result.

He drew a sharp breath. Exhale, he reminded himself. Breathe. Relax. 

He turned back to the clothing rack, reached up, and pulled the pair of brown shoes from the top. Another mystery: How did the designer come up with the exact style of shoes, in the same colors, and with the same materials? They had to have been custom-made. Incredible. 

He sat at his makeup table and laced up the shoes. 

A pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter lay on the table. It had been eight years since he had touched a cigarette. But he knew that for full effect, he would be required to smoke. 

Might as well rehearse. He pulled out a cigarette and held it between his lips. He flicked the lighter and cupped his hands around the tip of the cigarette as he lit it. He set the lighter down and took a long, slow drag. 

And coughed.

Fuck, why didn’t he think of practicing this before today?

He took a shorter drag. Better. He blew the smoke out through his mouth. He thought smoke rings might be fun to try – but he was never good at doing those. He tried anyway – and confirmed that he still wasn’t good at it. 

Rising from his chair, he scoped an imaginary line across the dressing room floor to the far corner. He needed to be slinky and sexy as he walked. A confident sway, swinging his arms, and perhaps a subtle bobbing of his head. Wearing this suit would make it all possible.

He sauntered along his impromptu path, holding his cigarette in his right hand, then bringing it up to his mouth. He lowered his hand and exhaled slowly through parted lips. Reaching the corner, he turned and headed back to this starting corner. He added more sass to his stroll and tested taking a drag and exhaling through his nose. It felt better to let the smoke out of his mouth; decision made. Next, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and ambled along in the same way. He felt good in this suit. Strong. Confident. 

“Backstage, everyone,” came the command from the dressing room intercom. “Mr. Alderson, Mr. Carter, Mr. Phillips, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Bradbury, Mr. Gupta, Mr. Chan, Mr. Hoffmann, Mr. Jepson, Mr. Burke, Mr. Franklin, Mr. Ahmad, Mr. McKenzie, Mr. Lavery, Mr. Davis, Mr. Goldman, Mr. Briggs, Mr. Alvarez, Mr. Boyce, aaaaand Mr. Fleck! To the stage, please! _It’s Showtime!_ ”" 

This was it. Arthur grabbed the pack of cigarettes and lighter and slipped them into his front pocket. He went to the door, straightened his spine, and squared his shoulders. Cigarette still in hand, he opened the door and went into the hallway to the gasps of production crew and cast members. This would be his true dress rehearsal. Suppressing a smile, he sauntered toward the backstage area, smoking his cigarette. As he traveled, he took in the reactions of people in the hallway:

“Fucking scary.”

“Blast from the past.”

“I heard a rumor that they were going to try to get him for this gig, but I didn’t think they’d really do it!”

“Wow.”

“Will you look at that walk? He’s a natural!”

“Great bod for a middle-aged dude.” 

“That’s some freaky makeup, man.”

“Daaayum!”

“Hey there, Sexy. What are you doing tonight?”

Arthur wanted to laugh, but he managed to keep cool and straight-faced. If he could stay in character in a hallway full of fellow performers, then he could nail it in performance for a paying audience. 

The cast members gathered in a mass at the backstage area. “Line up, guys,” said the stage manager. “Let’s do this! Go, go, go!”

Arthur stood in the background and allowed the other nineteen cast members, all half his age, to queue up in the order they had been summoned on the intercom. Each member wore a three-piece suit. Arthur’s mouth went agape as he surveyed the array of colors: canary yellow pants and jacket, purple vest, and orange shirt. Coral orange pants and jacket, pale teal green vest, and beige shirt. Royal blue, red, and yellow. Mint green, lavender, and pink. So many other combinations he would have never thought would go together, yet somehow worked. By far, his favorite combination was the purple suit and pants with lime-green vest and black shirt. 

Each cast member wore some semblance of clown makeup. Some wore whiteface only. Others wore whiteface, had exaggerated black brows, and red painted frowns. Still others had smiles. Many wore red foam clown noses. Whatever their choices, each man had a symmetry to his makeup. In contrast, Arthur had been specifically directed to paint his face in an asymmetrical manner. While his counterparts had natural hair in various lengths and styles, Arthur was the only one to sport green, chin-length, wavy hair. The now-famous clothing designer, Jennifer Davis, had seen him leaving the subway on the day of the rally eleven years ago, and she was adamant in wanting him to look exactly as he did then. 

Miss Davis entered the backstage area. She was a black woman in her thirties, with close cropped hair. A black long-sleeved, crew-neck sheath dress, hemmed at mid-thigh, graced her slender frame. Black leather zip-up ankle boots adorned her feet. She wore were thick-rimmed rectangular glasses in a cherry red color, and large red hoop earrings.

The cast members applauded her arrival, and Arthur dutifully joined in.

Jennifer started her final costume check at the end of the line, with Arthur. “The Legend himself,” she said. “Good to see you again. Excited?”

Legend? He gulped. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a quick nod. 

She smiled. “Call me Jennifer next time.” She took a few steps back, scanning him from head to toe and back up, ending with a steady gaze into his eyes. “You’re absolutely perfect.” She walked past him and continued down the line. 

When she was finished, she addressed all the cast members. “Be brilliant, everyone!” She took to the stage.

Arthur watched the proceedings on the backstage monitor. Miss Davis entered the performance area and gave a short speech. She noted that there was still too deep of a divide between the rich and the poor, and she spoke about how people should be civil and care about one another. She segued into her announcement that the show was about to begin. “Please enjoy my retro-inspired Fall menswear collection. I call it, ‘We Are Still All Clowns.’” She stepped away and returned to the backstage area.

The music began. A driving techno beat hammered at his chest, and a synthesizer-laden melody assaulted his eardrums at high volume. 

On with the show.

Arthur’s stomach knotted and his knees went weak. His hallway rehearsal had gone so well. But that was then. Now there was the prospect of going out there, looking as he did, only to be gawked at by spectators. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and snuffed it out with his shoe. Could he possibly run away from it all now? Forget he had ever been asked to do this? Since he was at the end of the line, he could easily pretend to leave for a quick costume adjustment, and then slip away, unnoticed. He’d run to his dressing room, rip off his suit, toss it to the floor, wash off his makeup, pull on his own clothes, and escape the venue. Surely, they could do this show without him. He sprinted to the backstage door and set his hand on the doorknob. 

Medications. Food. Rent. A four-figure paycheck. 

Arthur had never in his life earned a four-figure paycheck. 

He had to stay. Besides needing the money, he had also signed a contract. Apprehension or not, honoring a contract was the professional thing to do. He would do the job, do it well, collect the money, and go.

Arthur went back to his place at the end of the line. He watched the monitor as the young models hit the runway. They were good. They could certainly strut and stroll, but it seemed that no one could match his swagger. That guy in the hallway was right: he was a natural. 

His confidence renewed, he stopped checking the monitor and worked to relax and get into character. Five more models to go before him. He took several slow, deep breaths. One at a time, he shook his legs out. He turned his head from side to side and did some head rolls to work the kinks out of his neck. Rolling his shoulders felt good, as did stretching his arms up above his head and then lowering them back down to his sides. 

Nothing to be nervous about. After all, he knew how to be a clown. 

The model who was in front of him in line went to the runway. 

Arthur whooshed out a breath. He reached for his lighter and a cigarette, lit up, and slid the lighter back into his pocket. He wanted to laugh, he felt so giddy, but right now his job was to put on a serious face. Put on the sexy swagger – but be serious. That was to be his character.

“You’re up,” Jennifer said. “Be brilliant!”

Arthur unbuttoned his suit jacket and walked onto the runway, where he was met with loud gasps and applause from the audience. He stood in one spot, brought the cigarette up to his mouth, took a leisurely drag, and let the smoke curl out slowly between his parted lips. Then he walked. He moved with a relaxed, self-assured stride, arms loose and swaying, shoulders gently rolling. He was in control, and it was a great feeling. Nearing the pivot point of the runway, he took another puff of his cigarette and exhaled.

Fuck.

He hadn’t yet thought about what he would do when he reached that point. Usually models posed, right? But what to do?

Arthur reached the end of the runway and thought fast. An idea: Do something Joker would do. 

He shifted his weight back on his right foot, took a puff of his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and swung his arm down to his side. He slowly brought his left arm straight up, elbow locked. His hand represented a gun, his pointer finger extended, other fingers curled against his palm, and thumb upright.

He dropped his chin, scanned the audience which his firing arm, chose a random audience member, and pulled the “trigger.”

The crowd reacted to Arthur’s mini drama with an instant standing ovation accompanied by cheers and whistles.

He lowered his arm to its former relaxed position. He tipped his chin upward, flicked his eyebrows up and down, and did a three-point pivot maneuver. The crowd cheered and chanted, “Joker! Joker! Joker! Joker!” as he made his way back up the runway. Reaching the exit to the wings, he turned in profile, looked over his shoulder, and offered a derisive sneer for effect. He strode off stage. 

Jennifer clapped her hands. “Great show, guys. Now it’s curtain call, let’s go, let’s go! Line up! Mr. Alderson, go!”

The men went out to the runway to parade as a group. Nineteen models. Then Arthur, still in Joker mode. 

Jennifer entered on Arthur’s heels to receive accolades for her collection. She scurried up next to him and grabbed his hand. They walked together, side by side. Arthur dared to take it a step further. He released her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, to the cheers of the crowd. 

She struck up a conversation as they walked toward the pivot point. “I want you to model for my Spring and Summer collections. Next Fall, too. And every show after that – for as long as you want.”

“This was supposed to be a one-time thing.”

“As Joker, yes. But now I want you to model as you. You’ve got a walk that’s gold. Say you’ll do it?”

Arthur stopped still at the end of the runway, broke character and laughed out loud. “Yeah!“

Fueled by joy, he wrapped his arms around Jennifer’s waist, lifted her up off her feet, and spun around in a circle, still laughing. The crowd reacted with stomping of feet, applause, and wolf whistles. He set her down, impulsively planted a kiss directly on her mouth, then grabbed her hand and trotted her along to catch up with the rest of the line. 

The models filed off the stage, one-by-one, leaving Jennifer and Arthur to share a final moment of triumph with the audience. Jennifer took his hand and directed him to take a bow along with her. His cheeks ached from so much laughing and smiling. After all his earlier trepidation about channeling Joker again, Arthur needn’t have worried. He knew that the crowd was now noticing _him._ They liked him, and they were celebrating with him. He felt strong and confident, having just proven to himself – and to the audience – that Joker was gone. Forever.

It felt good to be Arthur Fleck. 


End file.
